“All these days I have taken her for you. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death.
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